


Meeting Quotas

by LostSoftSpaceDyke



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, self destructive behaviours, this one is generally sort of dark
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-08
Updated: 2019-08-08
Packaged: 2020-08-11 20:40:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,571
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20159767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LostSoftSpaceDyke/pseuds/LostSoftSpaceDyke
Summary: Crowley goes on a self-destructive temptation run after miscommunication leaves him without his angel for nearly two weeks. Theres a happy ending, I promise!





	Meeting Quotas

If you asked Crowley what day it was, he probably wouldn't be able to tell you. But if you asked him how long it had been since the almost-apocalypse, he'd answer in a heartbeat.

_ 12 days, 16 hours.  _

More precisely, it had been 12 days, 16 hours since he'd last seen Aziraphale. He remembers that moment as if had only been seconds ago, can just about see the confusion in Aziraphale's expression as Crowley asks where they go from here. He hates it. Hates the way Aziraphale's words seem to haunt the few sober moments he's had over the past few days. 

_ Guess that's it then, old friend.  _

_ I saved the world for you,  _ Crowley thinks.  _ For us.  _

The anger, the hurt, the frustration. All of it is rising once again in Crowley's throat so he orders another shot of tequila and returns to work. There's at least a hundred people in this club and they're all out for a good time so his work is cut out for him. Plus he's pretty. He can take his pick and then spend the night forgetting about Aziraphale and catching up on his sin quotas. Killing two birds with one stone and all that. 

………………

Waking up the next morning hungover and sober, Crowley is immediately hit with the realization that he hasn't felt this empty or alone in centuries, if not millennia. He's also genuinely forgotten where he is and just how far over quota he is.  _ Ten people maybe? No, at least fifteen. Since when does he check anyways? _

He didn't check before. Knowing what the exact quota was in the first place is a new concept to him as someone who used to just go out and surpass it naturally. It was about a hundred years ago, maybe a tinge more, that he failed to meet it for the first time. Hell had been furious and Crowley finally realized that he didn't  _ actually _ like this. Not anymore, anyways. He probably had enjoyed himself at one point, but waking up next to someone new every morning left him feeling empty, a feeling he had just gotten used to over the centuries but one that took just a month to get unaccustomed to. Trying to get back into it was unbearable. So, at the next meeting, he'd improvised.

"Sex is easy. Way too easy. Plus there's no lasting effects, nothing inherently unforgivable about having sex with a demon if you think about it. Plus people are getting vigilant about sexual sins these days. Victorians, am I right?" He rambled and, by some miracle, everyone in the room had agreed. "Wrath, though. Nobody thinks about wrath. Plus we can stir that up in plenty of people in one go and have it last generations. Really, we should all be working on wrath if we want a big, reliable outcome these days."

It had  _ worked _ . He was surpassing quotas again, getting outcomes other demons couldn't dream of. Where he was once getting a little over fifty people a month, he was now getting hundreds. Wrath begets wrath. One action would ripple through entire countries and over centuries. There was even the added bonus of shorter lifespans, something hell sorely needed since the advancement of healthcare. But after a hundred years of wrath, here he was again. 

It hurt, but what could he say? Old habits die hard. 

He’d thought being drunk would be enough to forget, and it had lasted for the first few hours. But being drunk  _ alone _ made Aziraphale’s absence all the more noticeable. It brought up memories he’d much rather forget. Drunken conversations he had once loved to replay in his head now felt haunting. And so, only 17 hours after the post-not-apocalypse separation, Crowley had found himself dancing with a handsome stranger. He’d woken up a few hours later feeling just as cold as he did now. But if he kept at it, kept starting back up before the feeling could catch up with him, maybe he could just get used to it again. He could  _ move on  _ from a good century of half-assed sinning. He could move on from a good century of regularly seeing Aziraphale. After all, better to feel nothing than to feel  _ this. _

At 13 days and 1 hour, Crowley gets up, miracles on a new outfit, and drinks to forget. Day 13  _ into eternity _ and he's already feeling like he's been working too hard. 

………………

Aziraphale had panicked. The excuses they'd had to see each other were all dependent on this end-of-the-world business, whether preparing for it or avoiding it. Now it was over. Now Crowley didn't have a reason to see Aziraphale anymore. Aziraphale really shouldn't be surprised that he'd left. 

But it's been 13 days and 20 hours and he doesn't think he's ever been this miserable in his life. He can't just stay here, moping about and watching Jeopardy reruns. He knows all the answers anyways. If he's going to get over this, maybe he should meet someone new. After all, the world didn't end. He should have fun, for Christ's sake. He should be enjoying all of the things he almost lost.

_ You had almost lost Crowley. And now you actually did.  _

But no, he's not thinking about that. He's going to grab his coat and go out. He's going to get a drink at the bar and maybe kiss whoever buys him another one. He's going to have a good night, the first one he's had in thirteen days, and he's not going to even think about Crowley. Not once.

………………

Crowley was exhausted and the prospect of going to a club with the noise and the sweat and the lack of personal space just really wasn't doing it for him today. Before the apocalypse-that-wasnt, he'd spent days like this opening ancient bottles of wine with Aziraphale and debating the merits of animals or social policies or Aziraphale's ex-boyfriends. Sometimes Aziraphale would mention one Crowley had forgotten, and Crowley would grin and tease him about the man while reminding himself that most had died centuries ago. Aziraphale would smile that indulgent little smile, as if he'd just eaten something far too decadent but didn't care about the consequences; a smidge of guilt but altogether too smug. Crowley would change the subject then. He always did. 

But that was then. That was before  _ eternity  _ began. That was before Aziraphale had decided he no longer needed him. 

Crowley is determined as he steps into the bar. This is nice and quiet. He could actually hear himself think, for starters. Plus there were still plenty of interesting people. Maybe just interesting enough to make tonight less exhausting. 

13 days, 21 hours and he's nearly a bottle in. A bottle of  _ what,  _ he can't quite remember. A bottle and a half in and he's realizing he might not be as good at this as he used to be. He’s tried everything, even flirted with the bartender. Looking down at the bottle in his hand while sitting on the damp concrete outside the bar, Crowley wonders how it got to this point. He wonders, for the first time in his life, how he got to be so utterly alone. 

"Crowley?"

The voice is tired, his name almost a sigh on the lips of the man in front of him. Crowley won’t dare acknowledge it, though, not just as he was getting used to living without it. 

"Crowley, dear?"

God really has abandoned him.

"My dear, I've looked all over bloody London for you," Aziraphale replies. There's relief in his tone.  _ Relief.  _ As if he wasn't the reason Crowley had left. As if he wasn't the one who had implied they were over. "Are...are you drunk?"

"What if I am? What if I'm completely shitfaced? S'none of your business."

Aziraphale sighs, brows knit in a way they only ever were if he were truly worried. Crowley aches then. He aches more than he has these past 13 days, 22 hours.  _ I don't care. I don't care if he hurts. I don't care if he's back. I don't care if he's glad to see me. _ The sunglasses are the only thing keeping the entire world from noticing that Crowley is one misplaced word away from crying. 

But Aziraphale knows. He knows how shattered Crowley is. He knows what Crowley's fallen back into. Between the drunkenness and the hickeys layered on Crowley’s neck, Aziraphale's heart feels like it's been torn in half. He doesn't know what brought this on. But he doesn't need to know, at least not now. They can address this later. 

He just wants him safe.

"Let's go home, love." 

………………

It's been exactly fourteen days and Crowley's hair is soft against Aziraphale's chest. He's drifted off, curled up against his angel, his lashes still damp against his cheeks. Aziraphale's thumb brushes gently against the grown out auburn stubble. They'd talked, sorted out the misunderstandings that had plagued them, and realized there was nothing left to lose. And then they were here, curled against each other as if they'd always belonged. 

He would likely wake up confused, finding himself in an unfamiliar bed. But the cold of the last few days would never come, fought off by a familiar scent, a reassuring touch. But they could deal with that in the morning. 

For now, Crowley feels neither empty nor alone for the first time in exactly fourteen days. 

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Please excuse any mistakes. I wrote this while drunk and I cried writing most of it. I'll fix any mistakes in the morning <3


End file.
